Between The Lines
by StarToucher
Summary: "We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on." The reason that Petunia took her nephew in. Snape's reaction to Lily's death. Peter Pettigrew's slippery slope to becoming a traitor. The stories of those characters who, often hated, rarely understood, have a streak of good inside them too. [Series of Oneshots. Complete for now]
1. The Letters From Dumbledore

**Between the lines**

**Summary**: Why did Petunia take Harry in? What really went through her mind when she found her nephew on her doorstep? A different perspective on the night Harry was delivered to Number Four, Privet Drive.

**Disclaimer: **Characters belong to JK Rowling

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><p><strong>The Letters From Dumbledore<strong>

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><p>The shriek echoed round the quiet and empty roads of Little Whinging, but it was a Sunday morning. The inhabitants were mostly having a lie in, and so no one heart the high-pitched scream, nor the ensuing wails of a baby - who was quickly snatched from his position on the front door step - nor the sound of the door to Number Four Privet Drive being shut with a slam.<p>

Petunia Dursley, breathing heavily, dumped the bundle of blankets down on the kitchen table and, with trembling fingers, snatched the letter that had been tucked into the baby's fist. Thankfully, he had stopped crying; curiosity seemed to have overpowered fear as his large green eyes roamed the kitchen.

Petunia opened the envelope, removed the parchment it contained, and read:

_Dear Mr and Mrs Dursley,_

_It is with my sincerest regret that I must inform you that Lily Potter (Nee Evans) and her husband James were murdered at the hands of Lord Voldemort last night. Please accept my heartfelt sympathy and deepest condolences for your loss._

_As you will have undoubtedly noticed, their son Harry, your nephew, survives. Lord Voldemort vanished after trying to kill him, leaving our world a much lighter place for the time being. However, ridding the world of an evil wizard can hardly be of any consolation to Harry himself, at this tender age, and as you are his only living relatives, I have delivered him to you, in the hope that you will take him in and care for him as though he were your own._

_Harry, of course, will be able to start Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when he turns eleven years of age. I hope that, in a few years time, when he is old enough to understand, you will explain to him who his parents were and what happened to them, and inform him of the world they lived in and the school he will soon be attending. It may also be a good idea to prepare him for the fame and acclaim he will receive on attending Hogwarts, so that it is not too much of a shock to him when he arrives._

_If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to contact me!_

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

(Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry)

Petunia took a deep breath. So Lily was dead. Her perfect, know it all sister, her parents' favourite (although they never would have admitted it) had been killed. She wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. A little remorseful, perhaps, but a large part of her felt that it served her right, being caught up with all those.. _wizards_.

As she thought of the distasteful word, she became aware of another piece of parchment in the envelope, and took that out as well. Her fingers, that had been shaking so much on finding Harry on her doorstep, were now surprisingly calm as they unfolded the piece of paper, which bore the same elegant, narrow writing as the first.

_Dear Petunia,_

_I address this letter solely to you, in the hope that, having spent time with your sister and having been informed of certain information regarding the magical world, you may understand a little more than your husband the danger that Harry may soon find himself in._

_The curse that killed your sister and brother-in-law was also directed at Harry, but backfired, vanquishing Lord Voldemort for now. It is, however, my firm belief that he will return, and when he does, Harry will be in very grave peril. Even now, he may be in danger from some of Voldemort's most devoted followers._

_However, while he is still a child, at least, there is hope for his continued safety. Your sister Lily died to save her son, which means that he is protected by an ancient branch of magic greater than anything even Voldemort can penetrate, a protection based on the bonds of love and of blood. I have placed a charm upon Harry, which ensures that, as long as he can call the place where his only blood relatives dwell a home, he will be safe from any evil that would otherwise seek to harm him._

_I will take this opportunity to inform you that this magic keeps your own family perfectly safe as well, and to assure you that you will not be putting yourself in increased danger by accepting Harry as a surrogate son._

_I am very much aware that you prefer not to be associated with the magical world, but I ask you to do this, if not for your sister, then for the greater good, in the knowledge that you will not only be protecting Harry from harm, but that you may also playing a part in the true and definitive end of Lord Voldemort himself._

_Until our paths cross again, I wish you all the best,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Petunia sank down onto a chair in the kitchen. Vernon was still upstairs. She was not looking forward to explaining this to him. When she had told them about _them_, informed him very hesitantly, with many stammers and stops and starts, that her sister and her husband were magical, he had looked shocked, turned grey, then white, then purple, then asked her if it was a joke. When he had finally realised she was serious, and told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted nothing to do with them, she had, of course, agreed with his every word.

Had she been disappointed at his reaction? Had she, very secretly, hoped that maybe Vernon would embrace the idea of his unusual relatives and that she could maybe "keep in touch with the magical world" as Dumbledore had once suggested. As Petunia looked apprehensively down at her nephew, she thought back to the first letter she had received from Albus Dumbledore. She had never told Vernon about it, but sometimes she took it out and looked at it, rereading the kind words. As Vernon was currently taking one of his long, Sunday morning showers, she went through to the living room, into the dresser, into the very back of an old drawer that Vernon thought contained nothing more than Christmas ribbon and wrapping paper cut offs, and pulled out an envelope: thick, slightly ripped, and containing several letters. The first one she took out was written in the same narrow writing as the letters she had just read.

_Dear Petunia, _

_Thank you for your lovely letter. The pink floral paper you used was delightful and I was particularly intrigued by the purple scented ink! I must pay a visit to my local ink store to see if they stock it there!_

_I quite understand your desire to come to Hogwarts to study magic, but it is with deep regret that I must inform that we can only accept students who possess magical qualities. If this applied to you, your name would have been written down by our magic quill on the day you were born._

_If there was a way to bestow powers on non-magical children then I would, of course, turn my attention to this and consider your attendance to the school with the utmost devotion, but unfortunately, there is nothing I can do to make this a reality. _

_I am very sorry about this, but please understand that it is for your own benefit as well that we do not accept non-magical students. I think you would find it most upsetting not to be able to take part in the practical lessons, such as Charms (making objects dance and fly) and Transfiguration (turning one object into another) and have to content yourself with the theoretical side of the wizarding world: learning about wizard history and goblin wars (which can be very dull), or studying the night sky through a telescope (which can give one quite a stiff neck!)._

_I do, however, encourage you to keep up with the magical world through your sister. Very few muggles (non magical people) have the chance to learn about wizards through a close relative, as we tend to keep ourselves to ourselves, and I would encourage you to capitulate on this opportunity._

_Again, please accept my sincerest apologies for my obligatory refusal to admit you to the school._

_In the hope that we will one day correspond again,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Petunia had never told anyone how bitterly disappointed the letter had made her. After all, she had always pretended to hate her sister's freaky world. She had thrown away almost all the letters that Lily had ever sent her from Hogwarts, and there had been plenty. Lily had written many times, begging her not to be upset, beseeching her to write back, pleading with her to be friends again, but Petunia had torn them up or else put them straight in the bin. The letter that Lily had sent after Petunia had told her she wasn't welcome at her and Vernon's wedding, smudged with tears, saying that she was happy for her and that she hoped Petunia would change her mind, had even been thrown in the fire.

Yet there were some, just a couple, that she had kept, and why she hadn't been able to toss them carelessly in the bin like all the others, she wasn't quite sure, even now.

She dug deeper into the envelope that had held Dumbledore's first letter and found a small, square, thick piece of paper, with an attached photo of a young woman with bright red hair and a man with glasses. The piece of paper was a wedding invitation, to the union of James Potter and Lily Evans.

It was the third invitation Lily had sent her. Petunia had sent back the first two envelopes, unopened, but then curiosity had got the better of her. When she had seen what it was, when she had set eyes on the photo, although she never would have admitted it, she had felt her insides burn with sudden jealousy. Jealous because Lily looked so overwhelmingly happy. Jealous because James, with his arm around her, looked so protective, so caring and so... fun. She loved Vernon, of course she did, but she didn't think he would or could ever cause such a delighted and care-fee expression as Lily's to appear on her own face.

Petunia hurriedly pushed the thought out of her mind and took up the next piece of paper, addressed just eight months later, enclosing a picture of a baby boy, and a small note from her sister, telling her that Harry James Potter had been born on the 31st July.

She had told Vernon about that one, dismissing her nephew as a good for nothing runt, but she had received two letters since, which, although her husband knew absolutely nothing about, she had not been able to throw away.

She took out the first, which had been written in January.

_Dear Tuney,_

_Thanks for the vase you sent me for Christmas. It's very unusual. I hope you liked our gift to you! Don't worry, there's absolutely nothing magical about it!_

_I hope you had a good Christmas, ours was pretty manic. On the subject of which, I have something to ask you. Dumbledore thinks it might be a good idea to have a few people as undercover correspondents for the Order of the Phoenix (that's our secret society fighting Voldemort – you know, I mentioned him last time I saw you). A few of the Order's relatives are doing it already. You wouldn't be in any danger and you really wouldn't have to do much, just receive the odd Owl and forward it on to us via normal post. It's just so our headquarters aren't given away._

_I told Dumbledore you probably wouldn't want to do it, but he seemed to think you might like a chance to be involved in the wizarding world. Let me know what you think!_

_Love_

_Lily_

_Ps: I know you probably don't care, but in case you were in any way interested, Harry is now six months old and growing fast. How is Dudley? I really would like to meet him at some point. I wish we could put everything behind us and just be friends._

There had been no question of showing Vernon this letter, of course. What on earth would he have said? Imagine the idea of receiving letters from owls instead of a postman! As for meeting Dudley, it was completely absurd. They couldn't have their dear diddykins interacting with a people like that! She had not even replied.

Sometimes, she wished she had. She couldn't help it.

Now, there was only one last letter in the envelope, and it was very brief.

_Dear Tuney,_

_Just to let you know things have got pretty difficult here. James and I have to go into hiding. We're really hoping that things will get better soon but we can't be sure. I'm so sorry to leave you to cope with Mum and Dad when they aren't in good health but I have written to them to tell them and I hope they will understand. _

_I love you all._

_Lily_

Petunia looked at the date on the top of the paper and then down at Dumbledore's most recent letter. Just three months had passed since then, and Lily going into hiding had clearly not had the desired effect. She was startled to feel one single tear running down her cheek. It dropped onto Dumbledore's letter, right onto her sister's name, creating a large black blotch over the word Evans.

"Petunia?" a gruff voice interrupted her thoughts. She rubbed her eyes hastily, but no more tears had appeared in them anyway.

"Why is there a baby on our kitchen table?" her husband demanded.

She had completely forgotten Harry! She had not even heard Vernon come down the stairs. Shoving Dumbledore's and her sisters' letters back in the envelope, and the envelope to the very back of the draw, she straightened up and went back into the kitchen. Harry Potter was still not crying, but his eyes were wide open. Vernon was looking down at him with an expression of disgust on his face.

Wordlessly, she handed him the letter that had been addressed to them both.

As he read it, Vernon's face when bright red with incredulity. "Keep him?" he gasped hoarsely. "Raise him as our son? I don't think so!"

Petunia made a small noise of protest but Vernon's eyes were now bulging with indignation.

"No! Abolutely not! I won't have it!"

"We have to, Vernon!" Petunia said, feeling nervous as she took in his livid face but knowing that, for once, she would have to be firm, would have to stand up to him.

"Why?" Vernon's face was twisted unpleasantly in fury and disbelief, going magenta as he looked once more down at his nephew. "Why can't we just pack him off to an orphanage and be done with it. We'll just pretend that he doesn't exist, like we've been doing since he was born. No one will know!"

"We can't," Petunia struggled with a suitable reason, unwilling to tell her husband about Dumbledore's second letter. Dumbledore was right, she realised. As much as she hated the "freaky" world her sister had found her home in, she still understood a lot more than Vernon about the potential consequences of refusing to take Harry in, and it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to make her husband see them for himself.

"But the neighbours!" Vernon blustered, now breaking out into a sweat. "What on earth will they think? We're building up quite a decent reputation around here Petunia, just imagine-"

"I don't want him any more than you do," Petunia burst out at last, cutting over him. "But I heard _her_ talk about that world, about those _people_, about the sort of things they can do. They work in different ways to normal people, Vernon! Who knows what might happen, or what they might do to us if we don't do as Du-" she broke off, amending herself hurriedly "as this - this _man_ asks."

Vernon scanned the letter again nervously, now holding it at arms length as if it might explode. As she saw his eyes dart suspiciously over the name at the bottom of the letter, Petunia knew she had won. If there was one thing her husband hated more than being associated with anything abnormal, it was the idea of something abnormal happening to him. His expression was no less ugly, but the redness in his face started ebbing away.

"Fine!" snapped Vernon, slamming the letter down on the table. Harry, who had been completely calm until then, gave a jolt at the brutal movement and started wailing.

"Shut up, you little runt," Vernon snarled. He addressed Petunia, his voice loud to try and drown out Harry Potter's cries.

"Fine! We'll take him in and we'll keep him alive. But he's not going to that school. He's not being told a word about this- this world. I doubt we'll ever make him a decent human being but he is most definitely going to be a normal one! And he's going to be kept away from Dudley as much as possible. Don't want him rubbing off on our own son, now do we?"

Petunia shook her head, then nodded, pale-faced but releived that the battle was won. Over the following years she did as Vernon insisted, not saying a word to her nephew about the magical world, refusing to answer any questions about his parents. She told Vernon that she had destroyed the letter from Dumbledore, when in actual fact it was placed in the envelope along with the others and kept secretly in the back of the drawer. Harry was raised in a cupboard, Dudley was given preferential treatment, and Petunia pushed all thoughts of the magical world out of her mind. Even when, despite all their best efforts, Harry found out about his parents and was sent off to Hogwarts, the longing to be part of the magical world never returned to her, nor did the jealousy, nor did the tears. Nevertheless, Petunia Dursley kept the envelope of letters for the rest of her life, very, very occasionally, when Vernon and Dudley weren't around, taking them out and rereading them, wondering idly what would have happened if she had reacted differently to any one of them.

**oOo**

Many years later, when she died at the ripe old age of ninety-nine, when her darling diddykins, now seventy-five years old, brought his only son and his ten-year-old granddaughter to help him clear out his mother's house, it was she who found those letters, still in good condition, at the back of a drawer in her great grandmother's bedroom. She did not ask her Granddad Dudley what they meant, but she took them home and kept them, hidden and secret, in her own bedroom, sometimes reading them curiously and trying to figure out a meaning. And when her own daughter, at eleven years of age, received a letter informing her that she had been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she was not altogether surprised. And when she heard through her daughter, during the Easter holidays of her third year, that in a few weeks time a man called Harry Potter was going to come and give a speech to mark a hundred years of peaceful times since the downfall of Lord Voldemort, the full meaning of the letters that she had taken from her great grandmother's bedside table suddenly became much clearer. And when her daughter remained supremely unconcerned and wondered aloud if she'd be able to get out of going to this "long and boring waffle about a dead guy," she felt a sudden, urgent need to give her the old letters, to show her why she should probably regard Harry Potter as more than "some old man who won a war a million years ago."

And so when Harry James Potter, one hundred and sixteen years after being left on his Aunt Petunia's doorstep, came to his old school to talk about the end of Lord Voldemort, he was nervously approached afterwards by a blond, round-faced Hufflepuff girl, who forced her way through the crowds of students ogling "The Chosen One", ignoring her teachers' protests, to tell him that she was a descendant of Dudley Dursley. The old man looked completely baffled, and half disbelieving, but consented to give her a few minutes of his time. She showed him the letters, and the photos, telling him where they had come from, and he, looking completely shocked, examined every one of them in minute detail.

Harry occasionally wrote to his cousin Dudley's great granddaughter in the years that followed, and when he finally passed away, he was, at his request, buried with the piece of parchment announcing the union of Lily and James Potter and its adjoining photo, and laid to rest next to his parents in the graveyard of Godric's Hollow. But he had told her to keep the other letters, told her just how important they really were, and why. And when two of her own children were accepted at Hogwarts but her youngest, to his bitter disappointment, was not, she gave him the letters that had been written to his great great great grandmother, begging him not to be angry or upset, imploring him not to isolate his family because of it, and reminding him that even the most non-magical of people can play the most crucial of roles in the lives of wizards.

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><p><strong>an** Next chapter will be about Snape

Please read and review! x


	2. Snape's Worst Memories of All

**Summary**: Another oneshot I wanted to write. Snape's reaction to Lily's death and a few memories that not even Harry got a chance to see.

**Disclaimer**: JK Rowling's world, not mine.

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><p><strong>Snape's Worst Memories of All<strong>

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><p>Severus Snape was not a pleasant man. He had always been twisted, bitter and generally unlikeable, although not entirely evil. He was certainly not the sort of person one generally empathised with, or felt sorry for. And yet, no one who had seen Severus Snape after learning of Lily Potter's death could have possibly felt anything but a deep pang of compassion for him, as he sat, broken, at his desk in his office, his eyes haunted and his face twisted and sunk under many layers of misery. The tears had ceased a while ago, but even two months after Dumbledore had sat him down and told him what Voldemort had done, the gnawing sense of overwhelming grief was showing no signs of fading. It plagued him from the minute he woke up to the second he fell asleep, and more often than not the thought of her crept into his dreams as well.<p>

He had borrowed Dumbledore's pensieve. Why, he had not said, although he suspected the old wizard was perfectly aware of his reasons. He was far too clever for his own good. Still, he had not objected, and Snape had taken the basin down to his office, where he was now sitting, staring at it blankly, unsure if what he was about to do was wise. He wanted to see her again, desperately, but would it be too torturous to see her in memory, knowing that he would never again lay eyes on her in the flesh?

He hesitated for a long while, but eventually the desire to see her, somehow, won over, and he pulled out several strands of memory from his temple and threw them into the basin, before plunging after them into its swirling midsts. The memories of Lily _Evans_ merged quickly into one another: the day he had first laid eyes on her, the day he had first plucked up the courage to talk to her, the many hours they had spent playing together as children, the long tales he had told her of Hogwarts and the magical world, the times they had spent laughing at her annoying elder sister. Then there was their train ride to Hogwarts. After moving away from their first compartment, away from Black and Potter, he and Lily had found one to themselves. Lily had insisted on buying sweets from the food trolley and sharing them with him, even though he had no money and nothing to give her in return. Even now, in his grief, reliving their time spent in that compartment, chatting and laughing, gave him the tiniest flickers of warmth in his chest. But the happiness was drenched almost instantly by the memory that came next.

**oOo**

His ten-year-old self was walking along a corridor next to her, talking fast. She was listening patiently, with no hint of exasperation, even though he knew it wasn't the first time he had beleaguered her this particular speech.

"... still don't see why couldn't you have asked the hat to put you in Slytherin?" he was saying reproachfully, as they slowed outside their Charms classroom. They were the first ones there, so he continued to speak in normal tones. "I was really hoping we'd be in the same house!"

"It said I would do well in Gryffindor," Lily shrugged, looking straight back into his eyes. He remembered the pleasurable jolt he had felt every time that green gaze had pierced him. "And Sev, be realistic. I'm a muggle born! I've only been here two days and I've learnt enough to know that muggleborns and Slytherin don't mix! Anyway," she went on, looking sceptical, "you can't just choose where you go, can you? If it was that easy _you_ could have just asked to be put in Gryffindor? I was already there by the time you were sorted!"

Watching his ten-year-old self squirm uncomfortably, Snape felt a little sick as he remembered doing the exact opposite, recalled his complete and utter obstinacy, his refusal to be placed in any other house but Slytherin, so sure that that was the path he was destined to take. Even now, ten years on, he could hear the sorting hat's words as if they had been spoken yesterday.

"_You have courage, young man, a great deal of it. Courage that Gryffindor house would nurture well! Courage that was the making of Godric himself!"_

But his mind had been set. He had wanted to be in Slytherin, like his mother. Like his grandfather. Like the Nott family, who lived just a few streets along from him and who had always told him tales of the greatness that Slytherin pupils could achieve. After all, Merlin himself had been a Slytherin! And he was going to be too. No old, ragged, patched hat was going to tell him otherwise. "I'm not going to Gryffindor," he had thought stubbornly, and the voice had sighed.

"_Very well, if you are quite sure, better be SLYTHERIN_."

And Snape had tripped off to join the Slytherin table, feeling torn between sadness that he and Lily were not to be in the same house and irritation that she had not been placed in Slytherin. At the time, being placed in Gryffindor himself had not even seemed like an option. Now, ten years later, Snape wondered. Would it have made a difference? Where would he be today, if he had been just a little less obstinate, and allowed the hat to go with its first instinct?

He would have been in the same house as Lily, like he had so badly wanted. But then he would have been with Black, the traitor, the very reason Lily was now dead, with the werewolf, who was admittedly less arrogant but just as untrustworthy, and with that snivelling coward Pettigrew. How _he_ had been placed in Gryffindor he would never know! And worst of all, he would have been with Potter.

His insides churned with rage as he thought of Potter. This was all his fault. If he hadn't been so cocksure and full of himself. If he had never taken Lily in the first place. If he had never married her. If he had never passed on his arrogant genes to another human being.

Why, it was his fault he had lost Lily as a friend! It was Potter, in their fifth year, who had bullied him and humiliated him, making Lily, in her kindness, jump in to defend him, and forcing him, in his humiliation, to spit the unforgivable word at her. The word that had lost her forever. _Mudblood_.

Everything, all of it, was Potter's fault.

Except... That wasn't strictly true. It took him a long time to acknowledge it, for he wasn't always honest with himself, and he took such savage pleasure in blaming his arch enemy for everything. But, as the memories streamed on, through their years at Hogwarts, through their increasingly strained friendship, through the terrible scene with Potter by the lake, and his ensuing argument with Lily, he knew what was coming next. He knew that he was about to witness the time that he really had pushed her away for good. The time that, whichever way he tried to twist it, there was no way even Potter could be blamed.

**oOo**

Sure enough, he was watching his seventeen-year-old self as he followed her out of the library one evening. She was walking briskly, and he was many paces behind her, but there was noone else to be seen, and so he called after her.

"Lily!"

She turned. Her expression hardened a little as she saw who it was, but she stopped and waited for him to catch up all the same. He was panting as he reached her. She did not speak, merely looked at him questioningly.

"Please talk to me," he said quietly. "Please."

Lily sighed, her expression still cold. Her arms seemed to tighten around the books she was carrying in her arms. "What do you want me to say, Severus?" she enquired, a hint of exasperation now present in her voice.

Snape saw his teenage self looking uncomfortable. He had known what he wanted to say, had spent a long time rehearsing it in his head, but when faced with her, it had not come out like he had planned at all. He had been flustered and his words had been stilted and all he had been able to manage was, "Look, I'm sorry! Can't we just forget it."

Lily merely raised an eyebrow. He did not blame her for her lack of reaction to his feeble words.

"I- I miss you," Snape heard himself admitting, noticing how his pale cheeks flushed with colour as he said the sentimental words.

Lily's face softened just a little as she looked back at him, but her mouth was still firmly set.

"I told you," she said quietly. "I keep telling you. We're going in opposite directions, Severus. We've chosen different paths."

Her eyes were kind despite her words, inviting confidences, permitting him to say what was really on his mind.

"But I just wish..." he trailed off. What did he wish exactly? Well, in reality, he wished that she loved him the way he loved her. But that wasn't perhaps the best thing to say to someone who had been deliberately avoiding him for the past year.

"I wish we could still be friends," he settled on at last. "I really do. I'd do almost _anything_ to be your friend again," he added, looking pleadingly into her bright eyes.

"Almost anything? Or anything at all?" Lily's voice sounded even icier now, and her gentle expression had vanished. "You know what it's going to take Severus. You know perfectly well my condition on being your friend."

"What?" Snape protested a little feebly, because of course he knew. She had made her views on his friendships with some of the other Slytherins perfectly plain.

"If you want to be my friend, you can't be friends with them," Lily stated firmly. "With Avery, and Mulciber and Goyle and all those other awful people you call your _mates_. It might sound childish, me saying that, and I know they're in your house and you have to be civil to them, but if you insist on hanging around with them all the time, and doing everything they do, and joining in their sick little games, then I refuse to have anything to do with you!"

Snape saw his younger self looking back at her, stricken and torn, as she, her voice flat, gave him one final chance, an ultimatum.

"I'm not prepared to associate myself with Death Eaters or anyone who is planning on being one, Severus. I made my decision a long time ago. It's time you made yours."

With that she swept off down the corridor. Snape stood watching after her, his face forlorn.

**oOo**

That had been her last ever proper conversation with him. And now, just a few years on, as the memories of Lily came to a close and he rose up from the Pensieve, Severus remembered how he had desperately wanted to do as she asked. How he had come so close. Once or twice he had left his common room with the purpose of going to find her, to tell her that of course he wouldn't become a Death Eater, that he would stop associating himself with everyone in his house if it meant she would talk to him again.

But it hadn't been quite that simple. The Slytherins were so cruel. And somehow or other he had always ended up running into one of them before he found Lily herself, and each time his resolve had faded instantly. And as the months wore on he had begun to enjoy adopting a more powerful and leading role in his little gang, becoming steadily more involved in their antics, in their cruel and manipulating magic that they performed on others without a second thought. And so _his_ final decision had been made slowly but surely, and he could not bring himself to do the one thing that would bring Lily back to him.

A couple of times, when he was sitting at the breakfast table with the Slytherins he had caught her eye, seen her expression of disgust as she looked away, but even that hadn't given him the strength to change his path. He had been far to stubborn to go back on the promise he had made to himself at ten years of age, that he would be a Slytherin and a great one, whatever the cost.

And then, in their final year, of course, everything had changed anyway. Potter, who Lily had always thought of as an arrogant toerag, had finally won her round. When he had seen them walking in Hogsmeade together on their first date, his insides had burned with hatred and envy. And in the months that followed he had swung back and forth between petty rage, wondering why he had ever bothered with her, to misery, praying desperately that she would get tired of Potter and, somehow, give him a final chance. But it wasn't to be, and she and Potter had stayed together all that year and had looked set to stay together for the foreseeable future. And in fury Snape had thrown himself into Voldemort's inner circle, trying not to care, trying to hate everyone who was on Potter's side on sheer principle. But he had never been able to hate Lily. Not when the Dark Lord and the other Death Eaters had held long discussions on the "filth of mudbloods", nor even when he had heard about her marrying Potter. He had continued to think of her longingly, continued to wonder who he would be if he had been sorted into Gryffindor, what might have happened if he had never called her a mudblood, where he would have ended up if, when presented with her ultimatum, he had chosen to take the other road.

As Severus stared down into the pensieve, where every thought he had of Lily was swirling together as one, another memory materialized, unbidden, in the forefront of his mind. He struggled to block it out, for he did not want to even think about it. He certainly had no desire to put it in the pensieve and examine it as he had done with the others. But he couldn't help but remember it, and against his will, his office started to fade, as he became lost in one final recollection, the worst one of all.

**oOo**

He was standing next to the Dark Lord himself, whose pale, distorted face looked gleeful, almost manically so. Voldemort was holding a piece of parchment between white forefinger and thumb as he looked round at Snape and the only two other Death Eaters in the room.

"You have done well, Rookwood," he cackled softly. "You have brought me what I craved. You have succeeded where so many others had failed. You shall be rewarded, of course, as shall you, Severus, when my task is done. For it is thanks to you that I can now destroy my one threat, the only obstacle that may have otherwise prevented my complete and eternal dominion."

Many months had passed since Snape had relayed what he had heard of Trelawney's prophecy to his master, and Voldemort had instantly become obsessed with discovering the identity of this mysterious child who would apparently have the power to defeat him. With only two small pieces of information to go on, he had struggled, much to his fury. He had pondered the words _thrice defied him_ for a long while. But he had made a great number of enemies over the years, and working out who had stood up to him and when was almost impossible. So he turned his attention to the only other defining information available to him. A child born at the end of July. Finding that information had proved far more difficult than originally suspected, because it could only come from the register of magical births at the ministry. Even with the help of a few of his most trusted followers, and his ministry spies, his first attempts to gain a copy of the birth register had failed. Avery had, to Voldemort's great displeasure, informed him that extra security had been placed over it. No doubt Dumbledore was behind that! He had grown increasingly angry, and even Snape had started to become a little fearful of his master. But finally Rookwood, who was held in very high esteem at the ministry, had managed to present a convincing cover story to ministry officials and procure the valuable information.

Voldemort held out in front of him, revering the faded parchment. "Let me see," he murmured softly, looking down at the names and dates. Snape, Avery and Rookwood watched with bated breath, wondering if their master would finally gain an answer to the question that had plagued him for many months.

"Seven magical births, in the last week of July 1980," he said. "Twin girls, July 26th. Muggleborns. Died two months later. Good riddance. And two other girls. July 27th and July 29th. But you are sure the prophecy referred to a boy, Severus?"

"Yes, my lord." Severus said softly. That was the only other fact he had managed to gain before being thrown out of The Hogs Head, but Voldemort seemed to think he had the most crucial pieces of information, and had been surprisingly merciful over his failure to hear the full extent of the prophecy.

"Benjamin Jack Baker. 28th July. Muggleborn. Highly unlikely to be him, I cannot imagine how his mudblood parents could have defied me even once, much less three times, but we shall deal with him just in case." His speech was hurried, he was talking more to himself than to anyone else as his eyes darted further down the list, trying to find a likely candidate.

"Neville Frank Longbottom. 30th July. Pureblood. Longbottom...Longbottom." His voice sounded quite deadly as he mused over the name.

"They are the aurors, my lord," Avery whispered softly, no doubt hoping to gain Voldemort's praise as Snape and Rookwood had done, and make up for his failure to gain the information in the first place. "Frank and Alice Longbottom are aurors, you would surely have dealt with them before."

"Many a time, Avery," Voldemort sneered coldly, unimpressed with his input. "They escaped from my clutches not long ago, in fact. Pure luck of course, they would not be able to beat me on skill alone. Yes, it is possible that the prophecy refers to their son. Possible indeed."

His red eyes flicked back onto the parchment and his mouth twisted as he murmured one, final name.

"Potter," he said. "Harry James Potter. July 31st. Half-blood."

Severus felt his entire body stiffen, a sudden cold in his heart as he heard the familiar name.

"He was Hogwarts with us," Avery growled, still hoping to be of some use to his master. "James Potter. Married that Evans girl."

"Lily," the word left Snape's mouth almost involuntarily as he thought of her. Dear Lily, with her kind smile, her caring green eyes, her vibrant, bouncing, red curls-

"Of course," Voldmort was saying silkily, his voice even deadlier now. "Potter, and his ginger, mudblood rat of a wife. I should have thought of them long before now, for they are always slipping out of tight spots. I have nearly killed them personally several times. And I would have done too, if Dumbledore hadn't been there to meddle."

There was grim satisfaction on his otherwise emotionless features.

"I did not even know they had a son. I have a spy close to them who should have informed me of this long ago, the useless piece of vermin. He shall be punished. But no matter, no matter. No harm done in the end."

He spent several long minutes rereading the parchment thoroughly.

"Very well," he breathed at last, looking up from the paper at his three servants. "Now, at long last, we can act. Avery, you can deal with the disposal of the Mudblood child, I trust. He can be traced through muggle directories so I should not think you will find that too taxing. And Rookwood, you can return this to the ministry as soon as possible. I do not wish to be found out."

Voldemort watched as the other two men left the room. "Harry Potter," he murmured slowly, turning to face Snape. "At last, I can be rid of this worry. For it has been a great worry, Severus. How a mere child can defeat me I do not know, but he will now not get a chance. His parents must be disposed of too, of course."

"My lord," Snape felt a renewed flood of fear deep in his chest. "Are you sure, my lord, that it might not be another of these births. The Longbottoms for instance. They are aurors after all..."

Voldemort said nothing at all. His red eyes gleamed strangely. "The Potters first," he whispered. "It must be so." Snape never knew his reasoning for choosing Potter over Longbottom, but the final pronouncement was like a knife in his gut.

"The boy, of course." Snape knew that the panic was evident in his voice now, knew that Voldemort would pick up on it within seconds, but he couldn't help it. "But the parents. The mother. Is it strictly necessary to kill her too?"

"Why Severus," Voldemort gave a short, humourless, high pitched laugh. "Do not tell me you care what happens to the filth that produced this child. Do not tell me you are displaying _affection_ for someone of such bad upbringing, such dirty blood."

"No, my lord," he denied at once, but he still couldn't let the matter rest. The thought of Lily dying at his master's hand, because of information that he himself had relayed to him, was too unbearable. He had to stop him from killing her. He must. His mind worked frantically to think of a way.

"But, she- she is not unattractive, my lord." Snape hated himself for saying the words, despised himself for suggesting that his feelings for Lily were nothing more than skin deep, but he knew it was the only slight chance there was of Voldemort showing mercy. "Perhaps, if you were to spare her..."

"Perhaps?" Voldemort repeated quietly and harshly. "Perhaps you would gain her instead, is that what you are suggesting?" I cruel smile played on his lips and Snape bowed his head a little, but looked up in surprise at Voldemort's next words. "Well, she could be seen as desirable, _perhaps_. Indeed, _perhaps_ I would feel the same, if I were a mere mortal capable of such pathetic sentiment." He paused for several long moments, during which Snape was convinced his heart was going to stop beating all together.

"Very well, Severus, I shall consider it." he hissed at last. "I said I would reward you, after all. But I would nevertheless encourage you to focus your attentions on someone of purer blood. After all, that is the only way forward."

"Yes my lord."

Snape remembered the fear that had overwhelmed him as Voldemort left him alone. It had been beyond any feeling he had experienced in his life. The terror that Voldermort would kill Lily in spite of his promise to consider sparing her, the panic that had led him to Dumbledore, the utter despair as he begged his old headmaster to keep her safe, promising to do _anything_ in return. But it had all been too late. And now Lily was gone.

As the awful memory came to an end, he put his wand to his temple, and with a moan of anguish, he wrenched it out of his mind and dropped it in the basin. As he watched it swirl into its depths, the heart-wrenching pain eased just a little. He could not erase the memory from his mind completely, of course, but he had removed the core essence of it, and so the overwhelming sense of guilt and responsibility for what had happened was considerably lessened.

How long he sat there, staring blankly at his desk, he did not know, but eventually he started gathering up the memories, removing them from the pensieve, returning all but three of them to their original place. He picked up the three that remained several times, but he could not bring himself to reinsert them back into his mind. He could not bear to feel that oppressing weight of guilt in his chest again.

He had, as a young student, once heard Dumbledore say that the consequences of ones decisions were so complex that it was impossible for a single person to claim responsibility and blame for a tragic occurrence. But the thought brought him no comfort as he stood there, gazing down at the glistening silver reminders of his three most terrible moments of wrong judgement. His three most defining choices. Gryffindor or Slytherin. Slytherin or Lily. Lily (even if he hadn't known at the time that the prophecy referred to her son) or Voldemort. The three wrong turns that had, ultimately, lead to her death.

He would not be able to live with these memories in his mind, he knew that. And so he took up a glass bottle, placed the memories inside, and put the bottle up on one of the shelves that surrounded his desk, determined never to open it again.

**oOo**

Free of much of the guilt that those three memories brought on, Severus Snape found it very easy to hate Harry James Potter when he finally arrived at Hogwarts a further ten years later, especially as the boy looked so much like his dratted father. But he kept his word to Dumbledore nonetheless. He helped to protect the boy, keeping a watchful eye on him, trying to save him from the many dangers that he walked mindlessly into throughout his years at school. And if the sight of the son of his former enemy ever made him want to go back on his word, all it took was one glance at the bottle on his shelf, the symbol of his three most fatal decisions, to remind him that James Potter was no longer the enemy. There was only one enemy now.

_Almost anything_, he had said to Lily. But almost anything had not been enough to win her back.

_Anything_, he had promised Dumbledore. Even that had not been enough to save her, but would it be enough to avenge her? He did not know, but he knew one thing. He would help protect even James Potter's son if meant bringing down Lily's murderer, and if _anything_ meant that he himself died in the attempt, so be it.

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><p>Please read and review x<p> 


	3. Wormtail's Tale

**a/n:** I've never written much about Pettigrew in my other stories so here is an insight. Please review :)

**Disclaimer**: As always, not mine

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><p><strong>Wormtail's Tale<strong>

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><p>It was a slippery slope that sent Peter Pettigrew down into the filthy sewer on the 1st November 1981, one that he had been in danger of falling down since the day he was sorted into Gryffindor, on the 1st September 1971, ten years and two months previously.<p>

**oOo**

Peter had been the most difficult sorting dilemma of his year. The hat had sat on the young boy's head for a full six and a half minutes, debating which house he should be placed in and Peter had mulled over its words many times in the years that followed.

"_Fearful, yes, but that is not a sin, not if you have the courage to overcome it. And there is indeed a certain amount of courage. A degree of loyalty as well, despite the tendency to be fickle under pressure. Slow-minded, I don't think Ravenclaw is for you...but Gryffindor or Hufflepuff... perhaps even Slytherin. "_

Peter had been too nervous to feel insulted at the hat's blunt words, but had sat apprehensively on the stool as it pondered which house to place him in. He had not known much about the houses at all. His mother was a witch, but constantly busy with her work and quite distant from her husband and son, had not given Peter much information on the school she had once attended herself, other than that she had been in Hufflepuff and that, wherever he was placed, he would have a great time. He himself didn't particularly mind where he ended up, although he was hoping that it wouldn't be Slytherin. He had heard one of the boys in his compartment on the train talking derisively about the house.

"_Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" _The boy had said to one of the others in their compartment. He had seemed so confident and sure of himself that his words had instantly filled Peter with a feeling that he did not want to be in Slytherin either.

Thankfully the hat had seemed to agree with him fairly quickly on that subject, deciding that Peter did not possess the cunning mindset that was prevalent in Slytherin pupils. It had, however, proceeded to spend a further five minutes debating between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, eventually proclaiming that Peter was not hardworking enough for Hufflepuff, that he was too fond of taking the easy road, but that he had a brave streak in him that could be nurtured.

Peter was unlikely to ever forget the sorting hat's parting words.

_You will find it easy to lose your way, my boy, very easy. You do have the courage to stay on the right path, if only you can find it within yourself. And I think, on the whole, your best chance of that will be in GRYFFINDOR!_

Relieved that the ordeal was over, Peter had staggered off to the Gryffindor table, still pondering the hat's words. He had never really thought of himself as brave before. But the hat seemed to think he could be, that he would be able to show more of that side of him. And, in the buzzing, vibrant atmosphere of Hogwarts' castle, Peter had felt a strong surge of determination in his chest. If the sorting hat thought it was possible, then why shouldn't it be?

He had tried. He really had. He had befriended Sirius, James and Remus, the other boys in his dormitory, recognizing their own bold and self-assured ways, and had tried to do everything like they did. He had spent as much time with them as possible, copying their every move in the hope that their courage would rub off on him. He had tried not to show the weaker side of himself, joining in their schemes, not even protesting when some of them were wild, dangerous and, quite frankly, scared the living daylights out of him. Like running around at the full moon in the forbidden forest with a _werewolf. _He was not prejudiced against Remus at all, but he could not deny that he was afraid of his bestial form. But, as the hat had said, being afraid was not a sin in itself. He just needed to overcome it, and so he kept quiet about his worries, and by doing so he had gradually gained confidence in himself. And if he ever did betray fear, with a nervous squeak or an anxious remark, then James or Sirius would just turn to him impatiently and say, "don't be such a coward, Wormtail," and he would pull himself together instantly, not wanting to seem weak in the eyes of his heroes.

**oOo**

Peter had never planned on going over to the dark side. In fact, in his last year of school, when their futures had looked so bleak, the idea of Voldemort and Death Eaters made him feel faint with terror, and he had figured that his best hope for survival was to stay as close to his friends as possible. Somehow, Sirius and James were so confident that it gave him hope too, even when the whole world seemed to be falling apart.

But everything had changed after they left school. War had dominated their lives from the day they had stepped out of the castle's safe, protective walls. James and Lily were married within a year. Remus moved into Sirius's flat to save money and Peter, back home with his parents, had felt... redundant. Useless. And quite lonely. And for every day he missed his friends' presence, a little more of the courage he had discovered during his years at school slipped away.

Even during their work for the Order he felt very much like the weak link in the group. No doubt he always had been, but somehow it hadn't been so obvious until now. His friends all seemed to have a purpose, and he felt useless. Fear began to dominate his life, and every night he found himself wishing for a way out.

And then, one dark, dingy night when his parents were out for the evening and he was sitting alone in his childhood bedroom, they came for him, their presence announced by three soft taps on the front door - an oddly chilling sound – and Peter, upon hearing them, wanted nothing more than to shut his ears to the noise and cower under his bed covers until his parents returned home. But he told himself not to be a coward. He told himself that he would be brave, that he would do what his friends would do, and he ventured downstairs to open the door. It was ironic, really, how such a determined, bold action ultimately led to a cowardly, miserable existence.

Three tall, black figures stood at his doorstep. Hooded and masked, he knew who they were, even if he was unaware of their individual identities. They were Lord Voldemort's followers. Death Eaters. And, with a sinking feeling in his chest, he knew that the reason they were there was not going to lead him to any good.

"We have a proposition for you, Mr Pettigrew," one of them said silkily. The male voice that issued from behind the mask was soft, lethal. He did not recognize it but it filled him with dread.

"The Dark Lord wishes that you enter into his service," another voice whispered. "And I'm sure you are aware that the Dark Lord's wishes are nigh on the law these days."

Peter felt the blood leaving his cheeks. The thought of even being near Voldemort filled him with dread. He had never come face to face with him personally, but Lily and James had a couple of times and even they, the boldest people he knew, had returned white and shaking from their most recent encounter, James looking nauseous and Lily in tears. The memory of their stricken faces was enough to make Peter shake with terror.

"Why?" was the only word he managed to force past his lips.

"He has a use for you, I believe," the first Death Eater continued. "He believes that you can be of assistance to him."

"But-" Peter protested feebly. "I- I can't."

Cold, surprised tones issued from behind the mask in the face of his hesitant objection. "You would not be so... imprudent... as to refuse?"

"But why?" Peter found himself stammering again. "Why me?"

"_Why me_!" A voice repeated. It was the first time the third figure had spoken, and so it was only then he realised that a woman was hidden behind the cloak and mask. She cackled, her voice harsher than her male counterparts, shriller, with an almost manic quality to it. She sounded jubilant as she answered his petrified question.

"Do you hear him?" she shrieked. "Why me? As if the Dark Lord hand picked him personally! My dear, ignorant, child, it is not a question of why or who, it is merely a question of when and if. _When_ you join him, he will make use of you. If you do _not_ join him, you will be against him. And if you are against him, I can assure you that you are as good as dead."

"Shh Bella, we want this done quietly," one of the other men hissed at her, and the woman subsided, still laughing softly under her breath.

"You will come with us now," the second man breathed. "Unless you are to refuse, and I can assure you that would be most unwise."

"But- my parents," Peter protested. "They'll wonder where I am."

"You will be back before they return," the man said quietly. There was a quality to his tone that made Peter feel uneasy. Had they done something to his parents? His father was a muggleborn and his mother was not the most gifted witch in the world. They also rarely went out at night, so this couldn't be a coincidence. Praying they were safe, and telling himself that he had no other option, he allowed himself to be taken by the three Death Eaters to a large house in the middle of nowhere, where he came face to face, for the first time, with the most evil wizard who had ever lived. More terrible than he could have even imagined him to be, Voldemort sneered at him coldly.

"What have my Death Eaters brought me this time?" he enquired. Every syllable he uttered was laced with malice and there wasn't even a shred of mercy in his terrifying red eyes as they raked over Peter's petrified face.

"Ah yes," he murmured. "Peter Pettigrew. Most useful. I commend you." He nodded to the three associates.

"Thank you, my Lord," the woman said, sounding quite breathless. She was looking hungrily at her master, leaning towards him as though all she desired was closeness to him. "If there is anything else-"

"That will be all Bellatrix," Voldemort said curtly. He turned to Peter.

"You see, Peter, I require a spy. For many months now I have wished for more information on Dumbledore's movements, on a certain society called the Order of the Phoenix. You are aware of this association I trust?"

"Aware," hissed Bellatrix, who, Peter had realised on hearing her name, must be Sirius's cousin. He had heard him talk about her several times, always with scorn and derision for his dark arts loving family, but he had never mentioned how terrifying she was, how deadly her voice sounded with every word it uttered. "He is one of them, my Lord. We've seen him with them. Duelled him, even. Not personally, of course," she sneered. "I would have managed to finish him off myself."

Peter gave a nervous squeak.

Voldemort, however, disregarded Bellatrix, and continued talking to Peter. "There is nothing to be gained by refusing me, Pettigrew. The Order of the Phoenix is a valiant and noble attempt at defiance, of course, but they will soon be finished. We outnumber them ten to one. Their resistance is shattering by the day. Eventually, every one of them, even Dumbledore himself, will die!"

Peter knew that this was true. The Order lost a member pretty much every week, and he lived in constant fear that it would be him next. Voldemort's eyes glittered almost triumphantly as he continued.

"But if you become a spy, Peter, you will be under the only true protection that this world can offer at the moment. For it is only by following me that you can be safe."

"What do I have to do?" Peter stammered.

"Nothing, for now," Voldemort assured him, his mouth twisted in a malevolent smile. "You will watch for the snake, Pettigrew."

Peter did not know what he meant, but he was dismissed and managed, somehow, to find his way back to his house. He did not sleep for many hours. He heard his parents come back shortly after his own return to the house, which was in itself a relief, and gave him just a little more courage to sort out the turmoil in his mind. His last thought before finally drifting off was that he would be strong in the face of Voldemort's spreading dominion, and when he woke up he was of the same mind. Hadn't the sorting hat told him he had courageous and loyal qualities? Hadn't he befriended Sirius, Remus and James to try and be like them? He knew that none of them would have even considered going over to Voldemort, no matter how high the price to pay. And neither would he.

Two weeks later, however, his resolve was torn to shreds. Sitting, once again, alone in his bedroom, he was interrupted by a tiny black serpent that appeared from nowhere and twisted itself in mid air before his eyes. As it dissolved into ashes, he heard the cold voice that had been plaguing his thoughts and dreams for two weeks issuing from them, telling him that he was required. Telling him where to go. And he had felt completely powerless to refuse.

After finding himself in Voldemort's terrifying presence for a second time, neither loyalty nor courage could prevail, and he told Voldemort everything he wanted to know. He answered every question truthfully, too afraid to do anything else, and in the months that followed he continued to sell out the Order, and Dumbledore, even his best friends. Sometimes he felt shame, sometimes he even told himself he wouldn't do it any more, that it wasn't worth it, but all it took was the black ash serpent, Voldemort's cold voice, the renewed wave of paralyzing fear, and he would find himself doing his new master's bidding once again.

**oOo**

Peter only told Voldemort what he asked for, out of slow mindedness rather than any particular loyalty to his friends, but this was, perhaps, the one small blessing in disguise that could be taken from his betrayal. He did not tell Voldemort about Lily and James' son. He was not in Voldemort's trusted inner circle, and therefore did not even know that his master was looking for information on a boy born in July, therefore so saw no reason why Voldemort would be interested in hearing about the new member of the Potter family.

When Voldemort finally discovered the it was none other than Harry Potter who he should be hunting down, Peter was subjected to the cruciatus curse many times in punishment for his negligence, and afterwards was too preoccupied with avoiding a repeat of the excruciating punishment to worry about his best friends, who Voldemort would now hunt down and kill. Nevertheless, when it was suggested that James made him secret keeper rather than Sirius, Peter felt quite faint with dread. In spite of his cowardly behaviour and wavering loyalty, he still possessed affection for his friends and he did not want to be the one who betrayed them.

Peter managed to avoid Voldemort for nearly three months after the Fidelius charm was performed. He went into hiding and no one bothered him, for Voldemort had been given a false lead to the Potters, and his fruitless search led him in the wrong direction for a long while. But, of course, when he finally reached that dead end, he immediately turned back to Peter, discovering his hiding place with ease and making Peter quake with fear as the fury emanated from him, not as a mindless rage, but as a controlled, lethal coldness.

"So you know where they are," he said softly. "I have wasted my time on a false trail when the whole time this information has been within my grasp."

Peter had shaken his head wordlessly, even though he knew deep down that there was no point in denying it.

"Your loyalties are wavering, it seems, Pettigrew," Voldemort said coldly. "Perhaps you have changed your mind? Perhaps you would rather go the same way as the Potters. It can be arranged most easily, you know."

"Not at all, my Lord," Peter squeaked, completely terrified.

"Then you will be able to tell me where they are?" Voldemort said, in his cruel tones. "And do not lie to me Pettigrew, I know that you are well informed of their location. You will tell me now, or you will never tell anyone anything again."

Peter hesitated, even then. They had trusted him, after all, above their other friends. How could he betray them so easily?

"I have been astonishingly lenient, Peter," Voldemort hissed. "I have shown you a sense of mercy that even my most devoted followers would not be shown, would not even believe possible of me. Most would be dead in a second if they refused me the information you have. But I have been merciful, and merciful I will remain, if you give me the information now. It is most valuable, this information, Peter. You will be doing me a great service by giving it to me."

Any last scraps of Peter's courage vanished in an instant, and he uttered the words that betrayed his friends - Godric's hollow – and Voldemort let out a triumphant cackle and left.

Peter stayed there, stunned, for a few minutes, and then pulled himself together. He would have to act fast now, to save his own skin, because her knew that Sirius would kill him the second he found out. And Sirius did indeed managed to corner him, just a few hours later, but he acted quickly, surprisingly so. Spending time in the company of Death Eaters proved useful to him in the end, for they had taught him evil and dangerous magic that his friends would not have ever attempted. Magic dark enough and strong enough to blast a street apart and kill a dozen people. Magic that people would never have thought possible of him, but that they might have expected of Sirius, with his dark heritage and Death Eater relatives. Peter himself then sliced off his finger and transformed just as ministry officials started appearing, disappearing down the drain on which he stood.

**oOo**

And that was how he had ended up where he was now. In a sewer, shivering as his fur was drenched with filthy water, limping along on his bleeding front paw.

Peter journeyed for several days, through fields and woods, nibbling on anything that he could find to eat. But food was scarce, and he soon became tired, each day getting a little slower as he continued to run, in his disguise, as far away from the scene of his crime as possible. Finally, he found an abandoned gnome hole under a hedge, and lay low there for a couple of days. The hole was comfortable and warm, but food was even harder to come by here, and he gradually became so hungry that he had to venture out of his hiding place. He had barely taken two steps out from under the hedge when he felt a jolt to his stomach, and realised that he was being lifted into the air, two chubby hands clamped firmly round his midriff. Peter let out an indignant squeak. He could not see who or indeed what had picked him up, but whatever it was let out a yell, deafening him.

"MUM!" The person holding him swung round, and Peter saw an odd looking house in front of him, several stories high and lopsided, as if it had fallen into place from a great height and no one had bothered to set it straight. A red haired woman emerged from the front door at the sound of the yell.

"What is it, Percy dear?" she called.

"Mum, look!" Peter felt himself being jiggled around in the air and gave a few more squeaks of protest. "Look what I found!"

A clatter came from inside the house, and the woman turned. "Boys!" she yelled in exasperation, before calling over her shoulder.

"Come inside now Percy, love. It's getting cold!"

The chubby hands were still clenched tightly round his stomach as the little boy followed his mother into the house, and although Peter struggled he could not break free, so he relaxed and decided to hope that there would be food, and plenty of it.

The noise in the kitchen as they entered was almost deafening, the whole room submerged in chaos. Two red headed children were pointing toy wands at each other and shouting nonsensical spells, running in and out of the room as they dodged each one, not caring that they were knocking over everything in their path. At the table, two younger, identical children were throwing spoonfuls of food at each other as well as at the toddler in the high chair next to them, who was yelling indignantly, while a baby sat in another high chair and giggled in delight.

The mother was visibly harassed. "Bill, Charlie! Calm down. Fred and George STOP!"

"Can I keep him?" The boy holding Peter was pestering. "Please mum! I'll look after him myself. Please!"

"Yes, yes of course dear." She smiled vaguely at him, far more distracted by her more unruly sons to worry about the boy with the rat.

Percy turned him round, and Peter found himself looking directly into a small, slim, freckled face, that was grinning from ear to ear. Then he plonked Peter down on the table, sat down and started feeding him bits of sausage from an abandoned plate of food, which Peter accepted gladly.

The woman had succeeded in calming the children at the table, who had stopped throwing food at each other, and the toddler had stopped crying.

"Mum is you-know-who really gone?" The oldest of the red haired children had looked up from his game with his brother.

"Yes, it would appear so, dear!" The woman said, still smiling cheerfully despite the stressed note to her voice, as she wiped the mess of food from the kitchen surfaces and walls. "Everyone thinks so, anyway."

"So he's not going to come back?" Percy paused in his feeding of Peter to look anxiously up at his mother.

"I don't think so, Percy love, but no one knows for sure," she said gently.

"And Harry Potter killed him!" shouted the oldest boy, pointing his toy wand at his brother and resuming their game with shouts and banging noises. The other boy feigned falling on the floor with equally loud enthusiasm.

"Boys!" The woman remonstrated tiredly. "Calm down!"

"Gone gone gone!" one of the boys in the high chair repeated happily, and his twin immediately took up the chant, banging his spoon on the table.

Peter, still eating bits of sausage, digested the information. So his master was gone. Vanished. Dead, even. And Harry Potter had killed him? How was that possible? Harry was only a baby. He had seen him himself only a couple of weeks ago!

"How did Harry Potter do it Mum?" one of the boys asked. He sounded awestruck, and Peter pricked up his tiny rat ears, hoping for an answer to this question himself.

"No one knows," the woman, now that calm seemed to have been temporarily restored, sat down at the table next to Percy and gave her children a tired but warm smile. "Maybe we never will."

"But his mum and dad died didn't they?" Percy sounded worried as he mulled over the question. Peter felt a little jolt in his stomach. So Lily and James really had been killed. He felt sad, but any proper grief he might have felt was overwhelmed by the other information he had just received. Voldemort was gone, and so he would not come looking for him. That was all that seemed to matter to Peter in that moment.

"Yes love," the woman said soberly. "It's very sad."

"Are you going to die Mum?" The blunt question fell from the boy's lips with urgency. It was clearly something that was worrying him greatly.

"One day, Percy. But hopefully not for a very long time." She got up and ruffled her son's hair before gathering up the plates, and the boy seemed reassured, turning back to Peter as he finished the last piece of sausage.

"He's got scabs on his front paw, Mum," he exclaimed suddenly. "One of his claws has come off and it's got scabs. Can I call him Scabbers, Mum? Can I?"

"Yes dear," she replied patiently. "Call him whatever you like!" Peter couldn't even be bothered to feel indignant at the name. He was too busy feeling relieved. Voldemort was gone, and the only other people who knew about his disguise were in no position to come looking for him. He was safe.

Unfortunately, the sorting hat was proved right. Peter Pettigrew found it very easy to lose his way, and fond as he was of an easy life, he never made the effort to find the right path again, and everyone who found out about his betrayal in later years wondered how he could possibly have been placed in Gryffindor in the first place. But even Peter Pettigrew had a streak of courage inside him, buried deep under the fear and panic, and he did occasionally wonder, sometimes even with a feeling of sincere regret, until the very end of his life, what might have happened if he had chosen the other road, and refused to accompany those tall, menacing, hooded figures the night they had knocked on his front door.

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